


Humiliated

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst, Dark!Crozier, Francis is a size queen, Humiliation, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, dark!jopson, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Fill for this kinkmeme request:Crozier, desperate to sexually dominate/humiliate Hickey but unable to properly fuck him due to alcoholism-induced erectile dysfunction, calls Jopson in to fuck him while he watches.





	1. Chapter 1

Francis Crozier looks down at the scene before him, taking a deep breath. Savouring the anticipation makes his trousers feel tight. In front of him is Cornelius Hickey, bent over the small folded-out desk of the captain’s cabin, his arms and elbows taking up almost all of the table space where Crozier usually writes his logbook entries.

A lashing would have been in order — at least 30 strokes with the cat for disobedience alone. That, at least, can be formally quantified, noted, executed.

But the disrespect — that’s a different story altogether. It’s not the childlike stubbornness of the common sailor that Hickey displays. No, rather Hickey thinks he knows more, knows better. It’s in every look he gives his captain. A look he gives _ him _ only when no one else sees, paired with just the hint of a smirk, a silent reminder that he, Hickey, sees him. Knows and sees his deepest, most unbecoming secrets and fears. But a mere look cannot be quantified, cannot be turned into a formal accusation. All that’s left for Crozier to do is to grab Hickey’s collar, shout at him “How dare you look at me that way!?”

And of course, this.

He’s restrained himself until now. Until a moment ago when he’s grabbed Hickey and ordered him into his cabin, his hands and voice trembling and making him seem rather unlike a captain giving orders. 

But now he has composed himself enough to appreciate the sight of Hickey bent over his desk. It’s almost satisfying. His cock is swelling — not fully, but the sensation is a most welcome one. 

“Sir?” Hickey dares to speak. His voice, although low, grates in Crozier’s ears like the screech of a rodent, and he feels the familiar anger rise again. “You will not speak until spoken to, Mr Hickey.”

“You don’t need to do this, sir,” Hickey whispers, turning his head over his shoulder to look at his captain and superior. Even now, he still tries.

Crozier grabs a fistful of full blonde hair, slamming Hickey’s forehead down onto the desk and pressing it down. The younger man’s response is a pained groan. Bending down over him, Crozier hisses right into his ear, “You will not speak! Is that understood!?”

Very slowly, as Crozier eases his grip, Hickey nods.

Easing off him and returning to a more upright stance, Crozier presses his palm between Hickey’s shoulder blades, signifying him to stay right where he is. A rush of excitement pulses through his cock, and he exhales a sigh.

If _ this _ won’t help him keep his standing today — !

His fingers tremble as he reaches around the petty officer’s slight figure, fumbling open his trousers and pulling them down along with his underclothes. Having pulled the long shirttails out of the way, he takes a moment to savour the sight of smooth, bare skin under him. Hickey barely has any hair on his bottom, and it is rounder than his lean build suggests, reminding Crozier of — _ No! _ He shakes his head involuntarily. He won’t think of her, not now. The mere idea is blasphemous. 

The contrast of that skin to his dark overclothes is stark, and without them, Hickey’s stature — lower back, arse and thighs — appears even slighter. He is muscular, though: Crozier can feel it as he runs a hand along Hickey’s flank, and waist. He can hear Hickey draw in a sharp breath, but at least the man stays quiet. Good.

When he grabs Hickey’s buttocks, he feels him tense briefly. A sign of discomfort but oh so delicious to Crozier. He squeezes them for good measure; not too hard to be painful but just rough enough for hopefully more such signs. What is he doing anyway but establishing his rank, reminding Hickey of his station? The means may be unsavory but if one is as arrogant as this caulker’s mate they are necessary.

Crozier opens his own trousers, hastily before his vigour leaves him again, and frees his semi-hard prick. Enclosing it tightly in one fist, a few hard strokes suffice to rouse it fully. Crozier grins to himself: this is working better than expected. With a little spit for added moisture, he positions it between Hickey’s arse-cheeks, using the other hand to spread one of them aside.

The first thrust slips down and misses; and by the second attempt his cock is going soft again. Crozier groans in frustration, pumps it in his clenched fist, hard and impatiently.

But his work is to no avail; he loses his standing as soon as he loosens his grip, and with each new thrust he merely presses his privates against Hickey’s bottom.

_ God-fucking-damnit! _

“Don’t say a word!” He pushes down with one hand on Hickey’s back again — a feeble warning.

When he can be sure Hickey won’t resist, especially not with an insolent quip, Crozier decides on a new attempt. He spits on two fingers and, without further ado, pushes one inside him all the while holding him in place. Hickey startles with a distressed sound which he immediately muffles with the sleeve of his woolen uniform coat.

So there is a way in after all. It’s tight — _ he _is tight, and Crozier can feel him clench down around him, wondering for a moment if that degenerate has actually been buggered before. All the better, if not! Hickey shall not mistake his intentions: this is meant to hurt.

Crozier notes, pleased, the way Hickey’s body is tensing and at the same time how Hickey wills himself not to move or to wriggle away from Crozier’s violating finger. Apparently it costs himself great self-control to keep still, to pretend cool indifference to this rough treatment.

Good. Very good.

Crozier adds a second finger, unceremoniously pushing it deep inside. Hickey chokes down an undignified yelp, his back hitching vainly under Crozier’s palm.

As soon as Crozier is certain that penetration will be easier now he withdraws his fingers and resumes working his prick. It takes a little longer to make it stand this time. But that will be worth it. This time he is ready.

He aims and thrusts forward, pushing against Hickey’s now sore muscle ring, and for a moment of sweet triumph he is certain that he’s breached him — a hot tightness is enveloping the head of his cock, and he groans.

Then, he slips right out and away. Victory instantly turns into disbelief as he looks down at his flaccid member that seems to be mocking him. 

“Sir—” Hickey pipes up.

“Don’t you dare”, Crozier shouts, pressing down onto his back, a gesture both desperate and pointless because, of course, Hickey is not resisting. “_ Shut up! _”

For a moment there is silence, save only for his own panting and Hickey’s quiet, steady breaths. Crozier tries again, working his cock to a half-stand, then frantically pushing, even stuffing it at its target, grunting and cursing, but all that he achieves is his cock turning ever softer.

“God’s fucking balls!”

It is only with the greatest effort that he can restrain himself from bashing Hickey’s rat nose into the desk. An obvious injury would only raise uncomfortable suspicions. He must stay calm.

After a short pause he steps back, and buttons his trousers closed. “Get up, Mr Hickey, and tidy yourself.”

Hickey’s shoulders tremble as he lifts them from the deck, and when he bends down again to retrieve the trousers around his ankles, his arse nearly pushes against Crozier’s loins in the tiny space of the cabin. A flash of anger rises in Crozier, but he keeps quiet, watching Hickey rearrange his uniform. Then the caulker’s mate has the guts to face him, to look at him.

Involuntarily, Crozier’s face heats up. “You may leave now, Mr Hickey,” he presses from between clenched teeth. Strangely, Hickey seems to have the ability to double Crozier’s humiliation with just one glance. His wide, gray eyes say it all. Crozier could stand to be despised — but Hickey pities him. He sees the drunkard, the ill-tempered brute. The impotent leader.

“Don’t look at me!” It sounds wretched, without Crozier intending it so.

Obediently, Hickey casts his gaze down.

“You may leave.”

Hickey gives only the slightest nod in acknowledgment of his captain’s orders, and pulls open the cabin door. Stepping outside, he appears composed and calm. How can add to Crozier’s humiliation even now? Crozier can just barely keep himself from shaking.

He is about to follow him into the great cabin, but upon seeing the person waiting there he freezes in the doorframe.

Thomas Jopson is standing next to the large table on which a tray with kettle and teacup rests. He watched Hickey leave the room, then regards Crozier with a questioning look.

Crozier’s face has flushed before, but now it feels shamefully hot. It’s clear that Jopson knows. From here, a few mere feet from the bedcabin with its wooden grille-door, he must have heard everything clearly.

Crozier looks down, shaking his head. “Bugger all”, he sighs, and takes his usual seat at the table. Doesn’t Jopson know enough of his sordid secrets already? Must he know of _ this _, too? But if anything, it’s Crozier’s own fault — he should have considered the five o’clock tea beforehand. Jopson always serves it at this hour in this place.

At least he can console himself with the fact that Jopson will never speak of it. If the young steward has ever thought of him unkindly, if he has ever lost respect for his captain in the wake of Crozier’s drunken antics, he has never shown it. Even now he comports himself with professional calmness as usual as he places the delicate porcelain saucer and teacup before his captain.

“Thank you, Jopson.”

But surely, this is something else entirely? A decent, virtuous lad like Thomas Jopson could not possibly reconcile his respect for his master with the knowledge of such unspeakable acts! Perhaps it is indeed better if Crozier explains himself. Before it is too late.

He readies himself to speak up, but then Jopson takes a chair, sitting down opposite him. Crozier looks at him, completely surprised at this brazen liberty. Even his hot-faced humiliation is forgotten for a moment.

“Pardon my boldness, sir,” Jopson says, looking around as if to ascertain that they are indeed alone. 

Crozier takes his teacup with trembling hands. So be it, then! Whatever accusation Jopson may direct at him, it will be true and he can at least steadfastly face the truth, if only to get an unpleasant confrontation over and done with, like an intemperate husband being scolded by his wife.

Jopson leans forward, lowering his tone to a conspirative whisper. “Sir, about Mr Hickey … I should very much like to assist you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Upon hearing those words Captain Crozier splutters a mouthful of tea across the table.

_ What in — !!? _

“Oh, pardon me, sir!” Jopson’s eyes go wide. “I have been to forward, haven’t I?” Ever prepared, the perfect steward, he has a cloth ready with which he dabs the spilled tea from the polished wood.

Crozier regains some composure. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Oh, I …” Jopson at once looks flustered, cheeks a healthy shade of pink. But he puts the towel aside and again leans forward, arms in front of him on the table, like a poker-faced businessman making a serious proposal. Again, he whispers. “Sir, we both know that Mr Hickey must be put in his place.”

Slowly, Crozier nods, and at the same time finds it hard to hide his astonishment. That Jopson, of all people, would offer to assist in this sort of thing. Does he  _ truly _ know — understand — what Crozier has tried to do to Hickey? 

Jopson swallows audibly. “I know we’re on the same page on this … person. And I could be your proxy… for his punishment, sir.” 

Now his meaning is as clear as can be. He must have understood — from the way he’s blushing now and casting his gaze down, he must be grasping the full scope of what he is proposing. “You?” Crozier croaks.

Jopson merely looks at him for a moment, and when he speaks again, there is a tone in his voice Crozier has never heard before: anger. And he’s never seen this expression either, this passionate fire in Jopson’s clear eyes, the deepening line between his brows. What he says next sounds almost like a hiss. “He _ disrespected  _ you, sir!”

Crozier nods in silent agreement.

“Isn’t that right, sir? You can’t let him get away with this. He must be humbled.”

*

Even as Jopson guides Hickey into the great stern cabin, the idea still seems preposterous to the captain: That  _ Jopson _ would be the one — even passionately wishing — to chastise Cornelius Hickey. And Crozier realizes that this is because he has always, not consciously but no less surely, imagined Jopson to be above matters of lust and cruelty. Of course, there is no clear evidence for that; it’s merely something Crozier has assumed from Jopson’s ever sweet and gentle demeanour. That he should have a different side to him is almost shocking and makes Crozier want to question everything he knows about him. For instance he has always assumed that Jopson is a virgin — after all, the lad has never mentioned a sweetheart at home, nor taken part in visiting the bawdy-houses on shore leave. Indeed, Crozier muses, he’s hidden that side of him as perfectly as he always fulfills his usual duties, every of his smiles, gestures and movements projecting an immaculate picture of the perfect steward, whose only concern is his captain’s well-being.

Perhaps Crozier has, in his thoughts, unfairly put him on a pedestal. This is probably not fair, he thinks. After all, no one is perfect. Especially not Francis Crozier, Captain of HMS  _ Terror _ . An impostor. Moody. Melancholic.  _ Impotent.  _

Why does someone like Jopson even put up with him?

“Sir, do you want him here or in your bedcabin?”

The question pulls Crozier out of his glum reveries. Jopson stands before him, one hand on the back of Hickey’s neck in an unmistakable gesture of domination. Hickey is trying to stay calm but clearly unsettled. Even he who peers into men's minds has not anticipated such behaviour from kind, angelic Thomas Jopson.

“In my bedcabin, please.” Although Crozier is certain they would not be disturbed here if he orders it, the idea of using the ship’s grandest room for such a purpose feels sacrilegious. 

Jopson nods, looking dead serious. With a firm hold on Hickey’s neck, as one would control a dog, he guides him into the captain’s bedcabin.

There is barely enough space for Crozier sitting on a little stool in the room at the same time Jopson bends Hickey over the folded-out desk. From his sitting position, leaning against the bunk, Crozier has Jopson’s thighs barely an arm’s length from his face, and a very clear view of the scene as it unfolds.

Hickey seems determined at one more attempt to get out of this. “Mr Jopson,” he pleads, “you know you don’t have to do this, do you?” 

Even as Jopson pushes him face down onto the table, his cheek squishing against the wood, Hickey still maintains that weasely smile of his. “You don’t have to follow orders that are illegal. You’re a good man, Mr Jopson. Don’t let  _ him _ ...” — again  _ that  _ look at Crozier, all callous gray vermin eyes — “... corrupt you.”

“Be quiet!” There is a sharp edge to Jopson’s voice that is also new to Crozier and, despite its viciousness, sends a pleasant shudder right down to his groin.

At least Hickey is not a fool, Crozier will cede him that much. It’s clear that Hickey knows resistance is futile; it wouldn’t do to fight back against one’s own captain, and when your captain’s strong, capable servant is the one holding you down, struggle is especially hopeless. Crozier smiles, and when his gaze meets Hickey’s he feels at last that delicious triumph.

Jopson commences the work of opening Hickey’s uniform trousers and smallclothes far enough to pull them down, and Crozier watches intently, his gut tightening every now and then with anticipation. He even feels his prick stir, and palms the front of his trousers just to savour the sensation, keeping his eyes fixated on Hickey.

He doesn’t know what he has expected when Jopson unbuttons his own trousers, but the sight shakes him up. 

Jopson’s cock is impossibly ready — already. Proudly pointing up, it is so hard that the foreskin exposes the glistening head fully — and it is large. Crozier cannot look away. When has Jopson stimulated himself to this point? Crozier watches, mesmerized, as Jopson gives it a few languid tugs with one hand, his other resting on Hickey’s backside, until he hears him ask, “Sir?”

Looking up, he meets his steward’s eyes, and realizes how shamelessly he has been staring. Jopson looks slightly confused. “Are you well, sir?” he asks.

“Yes, yes!” Crozier wants to wave a hand dismissively, but it trembles mid-air, and he can’t help but return his stare at that magnificent, towering cock. “That is, um…,” he stammers, “...fine. Very … outstanding.” What  _ has _ he expected, really? That Jopson’s manhood would be unobtrusive and meek, just as the man usually comports himself? He has never previously seen it, so naturally he has, unconsciously, formed his prejudice about it.

Jopson slightly turns to face him, holding that sizable cock, unfalteringly hard. “Is this to your satisfaction, sir?” He’s blushing, batting his lashes down, his previous coldness gone, and once more looks like Crozier knows him all too well: eager to please. “I know it’s not much, sir … but I shall do my best—”

_ “Not much!” _ Crozier exclaims incredulously. If he didn’t know his young servant so well, he would think that Jopson is ridiculing him. “No, no, lad …” He waves him to come closer. “Let me see, would you?”

“Of course, sir”, Jopson replies breathily. It is just one step for him in the cramped space of the cabin until he stands so close before his captain that Crozier can smell the musky scent from his imposing manhood. It rises mere inches from Crozier’s face, unabashedly saluting him, and Crozier tries to keep his breath quiet, his expression serious, as he inhales. 

“May I?” He gestures at his steward’s crotch, feeling oddly helpless in the captivating presence of such manly vigor. He looks up, shyly almost, a manner he knows only from the other man, unbecoming to his station as captain. But aren’t they already past becoming actions anyway?

“Oh, please, sir!” A radiant smile graces Jopson’s face, complete with the lovely dimples Crozier has always secretly admired. “I am …” Jopson stutters, and gives his prick a demonstrative tug, “... this, this is at your service, sir.”

Crozier glances from Jopson’s face to his cock, and back again. Incredible. Up there, his pretty eyes and familiar eagerness to follow orders. Down there, this inexplicably obscene, towering yard, all dark pink silky skin and visible veins and glossy wet head.

Ever so carefully, Crozier encloses a hand around the shaft as Jopson lets go of it. It feels velvety smooth, hot, and indeed as hard as it looks. He catches himself breathing in deeply, licking his lips. Just one slow, gentle stroke, foreskin over the dripping head, and back. Jopson gives a little sigh.

A chuckle from the not-so-far distance rudely interrupts his fascination. Hickey is looking at them, an eyebrow raised, with a crude grin. Crozier feels his mouth corners twitch.  _ Fucking rat-bastard.  _ Looking at him that way, even now!?

_ God damn it!  _ This is enough. Crozier removes his hand and forces himself not to look at Hickey. Waving one dithery hand in his direction, he orders, “Go ahead, Jopson. But …”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful. Prepare him first. We don’t want any … obvious injuries. There’s a little jar of salve in the desk drawer. On the left.”

“Of course, sir.” Jopson retrieves the desired item.

“S’pose I should thank you for the consideration,” Hickey’s voice pipes from where his straw-blonde head lies on the table, cradled in his arms. “But I’d rather that you get it over with posthaste, gentlemen.” The last word he intonates so as to make a mockery of it.

Crozier and Jopson look at one another, and Jopson’s gaze mirrors his captain’s indignation exactly. They understand each other. Jopson dips a finger into the salve.

Upon the first breach Hickey barely flinches. He turns his face away to the wall so Crozier cannot see him. But that is pointless now; Crozier can see all that matters. When Jopson breaks him, later, it will be clear anyway. Jopson is holding Hickey down with one hand pressed onto the small of his back, while violating him with the other. There is no hesitation in the steward’s purposeful movement, the furrowing of his brow betraying only determination but no trace of disgust. He readily adds a second finger, making Hickey vainly squirm under the firm hold of his hand. 

“I’ll go now, sir.” Jopson looks at him, as usual still expecting a sign of his captain’s approval. “I’ll be careful.”

Crozier nods, the seriousness frozen on his face far from matching the excitement and arousal coiling deep inside him. Even his prick gives a little throb, already half hard. Why is it that anticipation so often is sweeter than the act itself?

Holding Hickey in place, Jopson tries to spread his pale backside somewhat open, ending up drawing Hickey’s feet apart to get a better view. With his other hand he guides his cock between Hickey’s buttocks, and the latter mutters something obscene under his breath.

Crozier watches, realizes he’s been clenching a fist, pressing it against his groin. The hard look of concentration in Jopson’s face deepens, mouth tightly closed and brows together; then finally he pushes his pelvis forward, slowly, with a prolonged gasp. His hands grab Hickey’s sides. He pauses, taking in the sensation of sliding deep inside him.

Although he cannot see Hickey’s face, Crozier notices the signs of his discomfort, hears his suppressed groan, sees his fists on the desk. 

Jopson looks at his captain, and his boastful grin says it all. Crozier returns the smile. Again, his steward has exceeded expectations. Their shared look becomes a quiet, mutual celebration that needs no words. Jopson licks his lips, and brushes the rogue strand of hair out of his view.

Then, upon a nod from Crozier, he begins fucking in earnest.

It is obvious that Hickey tries to keep still and quiet, but as Jopson’s thrusts rock him across the wooden desk he emits more than one whimper. His arse must be quite tight, for Jopson spreads his feet for a firmer stance — apparently his advances cost him some effort. 

Crozier’s eyes are fixated on the spectacle, and when he takes his hand from his crotch for a moment to wipe his brow he realizes his palm is damp with sweat.

“Fuck,” Jopson groans — a word that Crozier has never expected to hear from his steward’s mouth but at this point he can hardly be surprised. Jopson is a miracle, a _ fucking _ miracle. Panting between thrusts, he throws his head back every so often, eyes closed, losing himself in the sensation.

Crozier may regret not being able to fuck Hickey himself, but never in a thousand years has he have imagined that this sight will make up for it.

As Jopson moves faster his breathing grows louder, and so does the obscene sound of skin slapping onto skin where he hits Hickey’s backside. Jopson’s trousers have slipped down so that not only his cock but also his backside is exposed to Crozier’s view; and he can see the movement of muscle in the lad’s shapely arse, rippling down to a pair of strong thighs. It is mesmerizing. And — how has he not realized before that Jopson is quite hairy? Suddenly Crozier is tempted to reach out and caress those inviting curves with the lightly scattered dark fur on them. Feel both their suppleness and strength, marvel at the contrast. But he restrains himself. It won’t do to interrupt this performance.

Jopson’s large prick makes Hickey’s stature look even smaller in comparison. His hands, too, appear broad as they grab Hickey’s sides as they hold him in their controlled grip. 

This will break his impudent spirit, Crozier is sure. Already, this is endlessly titillating and satisfying at the same time. He wants to maintain a serious face but has to grin, so he bites his lower lip in a vain distraction. This will show Cornelius Hickey. Put him in his place. 

Jopson faces his captain, and they share another look of understanding. The steward’s neat appearance is dissolving, his hair starting to look unkempt and cheeks flushed with exertion. He has loosened his cravat, and his collar ends stand askew.  _ Wild, _ is the impression that registers at once in Crozier’s mind. And at the same time, he is stunning in his passion; a cruel passion certainly, but Jopson is doing it all for him only, his captain. Crozier feels a surge of pride swell his ego as well as his prick.

He must be close to finishing, and Crozier knows this for certain when, after a few erratic thrusts between which he catches his breath, Jopson commences a hard staccato. It takes but a few seconds — but Hickey, as Crozier notices with cruel joy, gasps in pain throughout it, eyes wide open. He can hardly keep himself steady on the desk as Jopson rocks him forth and back roughly. Although it seems he won’t beg, or scream, this sight is already good enough.

Jopson spends inside him with a groan, thighs quaking for a delicious moment, before doubling over on him. He rests his hands on the desk, panting, before turning his head to look at his captain.

Crozier smiles.

*

In the days and weeks afterwards, Hickey’s demeanour is different. As usual he keeps up the act of the obedient petty officer but every time his gaze meets Crozier’s — even now, he still dares — there’s a new glint in his beady rat eyes. His glances are too quick for Crozier to ascertain whether there’s fear, but one things he recognizes for sure: Contempt.

It should have felt satisfying. Powerful.

But Crozier is still weak. Incompetent. Pathetic, really. And he realizes it even more acutely than before. It’s not that his obsession has intensified — rather, it has shifted.

It is no longer Cornelius Hickey who undoes him with a look on his face, with a flick of the wrist, or with a turn of the head.

It is Thomas Jopson.

Every time Jopson serves tea at an officers’ meeting in the wardroom, every time he sweeps the great cabin, every time he tidies the captain’s bed, every time he pours him a crystal glass of whiskey, he does so with a smile on his face. The very same charming, dimpled smile that lit up his expression when he held his thick, dripping cock pointed at Crozier, tearing down his captain’s resolution and pride without knowing it.

The cock that has haunted Crozier’s imagination ever since. 

He berates himself for his foolish passion, his pathetic weakness. But that accomplishes nothing but making him feel worse about himself in every way.

In turn, he sits in his chair and drinks whiskey late in the evening in the great cabin, and watches. Watches Jopson refill his glass, wipe the table, tidy the desk, looking cheerful as usual. But naturally, it cannot escape him that his captain looks a little more melancholic than usual. So he asks, “Is everything all right, sir?”

Crozier wants to say it, but his tongue is heavy and so he manages only an embarrassing mumble.

Jopson approaches him, one eyebrow raised in slight alarm. “Sir?”

Crozier sighs heavily, looking up at Jopson standing before him. “Thomas … you did good work lately. So good. I’m … I’d like to —”

“Yes, sir?”

He stems himself up on the chair’s armrests, not quite steadily from the effects of a little more whiskey than usual, and maneuvering himself from the seat, slowly drops to his knees. He looks up at a surprised Jopson, whose eyebrows are now both high in confusion.

Crozier brings his trembling hands to the the sides of Jopson’s thighs. “Thomas, please … You work so hard. Let me give you a reward.” He inhales deeply, searching hoping for the scent he remembers from the moment Jopson held his cock before his face. “You deserve a reward.  _ Please _ — let me.  _ Please? _ ”

the end


End file.
